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When Cobb suggested using Somnacin as a truth drug, Arthur calmly headed for the door. “Find yourself a new point man.”
“Wait,” he begged, “this time we’ll do it your way.”
Cobb’s way — eight years earlier — involved interrogating the drugged subject while the rest of the team fended off his angry projections with machine guns. It was a bloodbath.
“What was your way, pet?”
“More … James Bond than Terminator.”
“Kiss and tell? Better yet, fu—”
Arthur cut him off. “You wish, Mr. Eames. You ask subtle, leading questions. The mark doesn’t realize they’re giving away sensitive information.”
Eames pouted. “Not very Bond-like if you ask me.”
“It never worked anyway,” Cobb said, “but Yusuf might have fixed that.”
“This isn’t a valid test. I know what’s going on.”
Cobb shrugged. “Then just test out the truth part.”
Eames dreamed them into a villa on the shores of Lake Como.
Arthur stepped out onto the balcony. “Very suave, Mr. Bond.”
“That’s not my real name.”
“I’ve always wanted to know: what is your real name?”
“Eames.”
“Your full name?”
Eames flushed, but refused to answer.
“Well, this stuff’s useless if you can avoid the question.”
“So anything’s fair game?” Eames said.
Arthur shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Will my flirting ever get me anywhere?”
Arthur paused. “Yes.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Into that bedroom down the hall, if you ask nicely.”
“That’s all I wanted to know. You?”
Arthur’s eyes turned serious. “Would this just be a fling for you?”
“Never, darling.”